


Disarm

by BrightSea



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightSea/pseuds/BrightSea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anomaly is not a word. It is a state of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarm

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote it in 2007. So, it's old and probably very, very weird. I suffered from the infamous 'Second Person POV' disease. Now, I'm cured all right. You've been warned.

_So he knows. You were distracted one second too long as his fingers were tracing the steel frame of your gun left accidentally on the desk. You touched those fingers, you held them maybe too softly. It all became unnecessarily meaningful. It also may be that you failed to maintain eye-contact, this ever respected sign of honesty._

 Sometimes Charlie has a strange dream. He dreams about darkness touching him in most intimate ways. Warm darkness, with a texture of dry, chapped skin. Darkness that smells of the southern sun, the desert, and – at times – of beer. Darkness caresses him slowly and steadily so he clings to this sensation as if he was drowning in emptiness of shaky supernovas under his tightly closed eyelids. Darkness whispers to him in his brother's voice.

_I know this. I know about us. Anomaly. That's the word. We're countless myriads, we're imbalance, we're disorder. You are one, unity, balanced, controlling. I am nothing, steady, indifferent. We fit. We don't fit. We're not allowed._

 Sometimes Don has an inappropriate thought. The desert is vast, filled with sandy hints of orange. Sometimes he wishes Charlie a wandering bullet, a flash of pain so fast it misses actual senses, digs deep into his vegetative system, severs nerves, short-circuits his brilliant mind, leaves blackness.

_When you were a little boy, you used to fear consequences. You grew up._

 Sometimes Don's fingers play with the trigger of his gun, reading its Braille-whispered advice, tempting him into a blasphemous fantasy of blood-soaked paths to nowhere. Boys shouldn't be where bullets fly. They should be locked at home, chained to their books, drawing graphs, staying alive.

_Watch out, Charlie-boy when the semi-automatic barks in the heat of your city's battlefields, watch out in the cold, cold night._

 The line between indifference and emotion is thin and bright and the thought of it tastes of lemon candies they both used to eat when they were kids. Beneath the sweet layer of sticky yellow they held a salty, uncomfortable hint of metal. Sugarcoated death, Don remembers it better each time he looks at his brother's shoulder-blades. Charlie's body manages somehow to remind him that this tiny, crammed world nurtures no God to forgive him. The only absolution lies somewhere half-way between his skin and Charlie's fingertips.

_Charlie's mouth is soft. Yours – numb. You feel the gun holster near your hips and you're suddenly sure you're forgiven._


End file.
